Wake Up With the Sunrise
by caithream
Summary: What Is and What Should Never Be from Sam's perspective.


Sam stands, running a hand through his hair, his eyes on his cellphone which sits silent and still. It's been over two hours since Dean had told him he was going to check out the warehouse, and five irritated voicemails and a consistent eye on the parking lot through the shabby motel curtains hasn't improved Sam's situation in the least. The situation being, of course, that his brother is an asshole and an arrogant bastard and Sam wishes like hell he would have been a little more forceful about having Dean come pick him up.

He tries to think what Dean would do in Sam's current situation, but the fact that he himself has a habit of running off, whether demon-possessed or not, makes Sam pretty sure he already knows the answer.

So, okay. There's the little problem of the Impala being missing and all, so his options are walking around the fifty mile radius Dean had been scouting, or stealing a car from the motel parking lot and hoping to God no one notices until its safely returned.

He thinks Dean would be laughing his ass off at him when he picks an inconspicuous, family-friendly minivan that looks as if it's been sitting under the pollen-shedding oaks for a while, and somehow that makes him feel a little bit better.

All right. A warehouse. They're on the outskirts of Industrialtown, USA, and he has to find not just any old abandoned warehouse (because there are plenty), he has to find the old abandoned warehouse with his brother inside, either performing one long-ass celebratory ritual for killing the djinn, or….

Well.

Either way, Sam's not anticipating the outcome.

His stomach is rolling and his fingertips are tingling in fear and anticipation as he parks the minivan in the weed-choked area just outside the first warehouse. There's no movement in the building in front of him, but if he hasn't learned in all the years he's been hunting that that means absolutely nothing in the long run, he might as well just hand himself over to the damn thing now.

Earlier at the motel Sam had found the passage stating that not only could a djinn be killed, but that it had to be done with a silver dagger and lamb's blood. Lamb's blood being in short supply in the back of the Impala, he had walked two blocks over to the local Ma and Pa deli slash grocery store and easily invited himself in with the help of a lock pick. Fortunately for him, lamb chops just so happened to be this week's special.

He holds the flashlight steady with one hand and the blood-dipped knife in the other, and he thinks he kind of wants to kill Dean for most probably investigating a possible threat without any knowledge on how to take it down. It's not stupidity, but it's not forgetfulness either, just a simple mistake that Sam still somehow thinks his big brother is incapable of making.

His steps on the concrete floors of the warehouse echo forlornly, but other than giant heaps of scrap metal and the rusting beams holding the place up, there's nothing here.

_One down…_ and Sam doesn't finish that thought because he's a fucking optimist, and every increasing number on that end of the scale could very well mean less time for _Dean_, and Sam really isn't going to think about that.

Each of the subsequent warehouses are nearly exact replicas of the first, with varying objects and debris scattered throughout each, but no Dean. His skin feels like it's absolutely crawling, so intense is his need to find Dean and stab this stupid djinn until he's full of gaping holes.

He pulls up to the fifth warehouse, only slightly farther out than where he thought Dean would be, but at this point he's gonna search the entire fucking state if he has to, and as he gives the place a once-over he feels a surge of adrenaline shoot through him. Dean's got to be here. He has to be. This place is an absolute shithole.

Sam dips the knife tip into the little cup of blood, replenishing the poison. The waning moon glints a little off the cold silver, and there's a metaphor in all this somewhere, but he's too distracted to come up with anything.

His hopes are reassured by the complicated maze of rusted metal grates framing smaller areas filled with junk on top of junk and corridors of opaque plexiglass that he knows does little to hide the beam of his flashlight. It's dark, but there's dim lights shining from somewhere, enough to know he's not going to sail headlong into a pile of rusty nails, or something, and that's good enough for Sam.

He searches, silent, all too aware of a metallic, coppery-blood scent stinging his nostrils as well as the distinct stench of death hanging in the heavy air, but ignores it, God, ignores it, and focuses on ripping the knife through the djinn's neck.

Too long, this is taking too damn long, and he remembers the same feeling on one of his first hunts with Dean and his father, nearly having his ass handed to him by one seriously pissed off spirit because he was too eager to finish the job, too impatient to watch and wait and learn, and now, while his patience is tested daily just being _with_ Dean, the fact that his patience while hunting has improved dramatically means next to nothing right now because _he can't find his damn brother_—

There.

Not Dean, not yet, just two rotting corpses and another well on her way out by the looks of it, and God help him, he'll come back, he swears to it, he just has to find Dean.

And then Sam hears a small groan some ways behind him and his breath catches in his throat, because he's heard that sound after more than a few bad hunts, even if at the time he pretends not to, and he turns and looks.

Dean hangs by his wrists, sickly and still under a naked lightbulb, and Sam hears him groan again, louder this time, dark eyelashes fluttering, standing out stark on Dean's ashen face. This is good. This is very good because Dean is coming around out of his own will, somehow, but also very bad because that means the djinn will following close behind.

He should wait. He should let the djinn come, leave Dean as bait so Sam can rip the fucker in half without too much of a fight, but Dean's moans suddenly die on his lips and his struggles against the rope still, and he falls back into whatever stupor held him before.

And then Sam notices the small tube attached to Dean's neck.

Fuck this. _Fuck this._

"Dean!" he yells. "_Dean!_"

------

Despite the fact that Dean looks as if he's going to collapse at any second, he insists on carrying the girl out to the car without any help from Sam, and after a brief protest Sam relents. He's not going to pretend he has no idea what's going on, but if it makes Dean feel better, fine. The first golden rays of morning sun glint off the cool metal of the Impala as Sam holds a back door open and Dean slides the girl gently on to the back seats. She's mumbling, no less coherent than she was back in the warehouse, but at least her eyes are now closed. They both know she needs to get to a hospital badly.

"Keys," Sam says, holding out his hand. Dean drops them there without any protest and climbs into the passenger seat, curling himself away from Sam and resting his head on the window. Even in the shadows Sam can see Dean's deathly pale features and dark circles under his eyes, and he's well aware that Dean should be joining the girl in the hospital.

_Yeah. Good luck on that one._

He sighs as he turns the key, the familiar rumble springing to life around them, and tries to maneuver the car as gently as he can.

------

Sam drops the girl off at the emergency room and manages to sneak out under the flurry of activity with no questions asked. Dean's still in the same position in the passenger seat when he returns, trying to make Sam think he's sleeping, maybe, but Sam knows better. His need to ask Dean what the hell exactly happened back there is driving him insane, but he'll hold his tongue until they get to the motel, at least.

A wish granted. Dean's wish. He's pretty sure he knows what it would entail, but as far as how fucked up it all ended, he has no idea.

Dean's slow to get out of the car once they reach the motel, but Sam's there, pulling an unbearably weak arm over his shoulder and still Dean says nothing. Dean needs a shower like yesterday, but Sam doesn't exactly have the heart to prop him up in the bathroom and wish him good luck, so he pulls back the covers on the bed and eases him down. It isn't until he's pulling the sheets and repositioning the pillow that Dean finally speaks up.

"Sam," he rasps, looking at him pointedly.

"Yeah?"

"Hands off, dude," he says, and gingerly rolls onto his side, eyes closed.

Sam backs off and pulls the curtains closed as much as he can, bright light still filtering in through every crack. He's still desperate to know, to want to help, but Dean's _here_ now, and that's all that matters.

He pulls up one of the motel's chairs and props his legs up on his own bed, angled towards Dean. A magazine lays on the bedside table, and he picks it up, thumbing through it.

He waits.


End file.
